


Trompe l'Oeil

by pied_pollo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Case Fic, Cults, Fancy Art Terms, Gen, Gil Arroyo Needs a Vacation, Human Sacrifice, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm does not call for backup, Murder Mystery, Some Humor, escape room, interrogations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: Malcolm's day off goes south when someone is murdered at an art gallery that has more secrets than it cares to let on.
Comments: 109
Kudos: 66





	1. Objet Trouvé

Central Park was a ghost town. The only light came from the faint orange glow of street lamps that dotted the paths. The only sound was the whisper of wind brushing the tree leaves and the hum of cicadas enjoying the warm night. The only people there were a lone couple, aggressively making out on a bench. Despite Manhattan’s rush-hour reputation, the park was almost deserted.

That was, until the small thumping of footsteps announced the existence of one man, walking alone. Malcolm Bright walked aimlessly through Central Park, his arms loose at his sides, his feet almost dragging against the pavement. His shoulders were hunched, and his eyes were glazed. It would take only a second to realize he was sleepwalking.

The couple on the bench ignored Malcolm’s presence, but the passionate love-making died down a little bit as they noticed him watching. The couple released each other for a moment to breathe and wait for Malcolm to walk by...except he didn’t. Malcolm stopped in his tracks, staring right ahead--which was, unfortunately for him, at the couple.

“Yo,” one of the lovers called. “What’s your problem?”

“Shut up, Damien,” the other hissed. “He’s probably whacked out of his mind.”

Malcolm blinked, and his shoulders jolted a little. He turned around, clearly disoriented. “What?”

“You gonna go, man?” Damien asked disgustedly. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he held onto his date protectively.

Malcolm swallowed. “Um...am I in Central Park?”

“Bro, what are you on?”

“Nothing. I don’t do drugs,” Malcolm insisted. _Well, not for recreation,_ his mind oh-so-helpfully supplied.

The woman scoffed and stood up. “Get lost, pervert,” she hissed.

“What? What did I do?” Malcolm was confused. How did he end up here?

Damien followed his date off the bench and shoulder-checked Malcolm on the way. Malcolm stayed where he was, wrapping his arms protectively around himself. There was a pinch in his left foot.

Malcolm looked down and was surprised to see he was in his socks. He lifted his leg to discover blood staining the underside of his foot. He winced. Unsure of what to do next, Malcolm turned around and walked home unsteadily. What happened?

* * *

“You were probably sleepwalking,” Gabrielle remarked.

“That’s never happened to me before,” he murmured.

“Well, certain SSRI’s can increase the likelihood of that happening. Why don’t we lower your Zoloft dose?”

Malcolm nodded shakily. His hand vibrated, so he tucked it underneath him to hide the tremor. Gabrielle noticed.

“I can ease your prescription, but sleepwalking is also caused by stress,” she pointed out.

“I’m aware.”

“How did your last case go?” Gabrielle took a pen from the table and tapped it on her clipboard.

“Normal,” Malcolm lied.

Gabrielle’s eyebrows lifted disbelievingly.

“It was normal,” Malcolm insisted.

Gabrielle continued to stare at him.

“Okay,” Malcolm admitted, “it was a little rough.”

“Malcolm,” Gabrielle said, “you and I both know how bad things are. You can _not_ work yourself into this state. It isn’t healthy.”

“What do I do? I just can’t _not_ work.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to stop. I’m saying what you _could_ do...is take a day off.”

“Take a day off?” Malcolm echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Taking a day to do things you enjoy is a great way to get your mind off of…” Gabrielle gestured to her head. “...all that going on.”

“What if I’m needed?” Malcolm asked.

“Malcolm, you’re not in the NYPD,” Gabrielle reminded him. “You’re a _consultant_. You don’t need to be there unless they call you. What do you say? Hmm?”

Malcolm hesitated. Then he nodded slowly. “I can do that.”

“Alright, then. Send a text to your boss and have a nice day.”

Malcolm took out his phone and typed: _Taking a day off._

Gil responded almost immediately: _No cases here. Have fun._

“He said it’s okay,” Malcolm relayed.

“Perfect.” Gabrielle sat back in her chair, satisfied. “Now...what are you going to do?”

* * *

Malcolm took a brochure from the front desk. He took in a deep breath and glanced around the museum before starting up the concrete staircase to the second floor, taking two steps at a time.

According to the brochure, this art institute had been established in the 1890s ( _THE FIN DE SIECLE!_ , as the front page proudly exclaimed) and was constantly being rebuilt--to his right, a pair of construction workers lifted a small statue to clean away crumbled drywall. Malcolm watched them for a moment before taking a seat in one of the wooden benches and looking at the paintings that decorated the walls.

His phone buzzed.

_Don’t answer it_ , Malcolm coached himself.

Another buzz. Someone was calling him.

Maybe it was Gil.

_I’m on my day off. I will not. Pick up. The phone._

A third ring.

_Gil knows I'm not working today,_ Malcolm realized.

Then there were only three possible people that could be calling him. And none of them would stop until he picked up the phone. Sighing in defeat, Malcolm took his it out of his pocket and hit the answer button: “Hello, Mother.”

“ _Malcolm, dear! Gil told me you were taking a day,_ ” Jessica Whitly trilled on the other end.

“I am. I’m at the art institute.”

“ _That is just wonderful,_ ” Jessica gushed. “ _Honestly, Malcolm, I was starting to worry about those lines on your forehead._ ”

“Well, if you must know, I’m having a good time.”

“ _Oh, you have no idea how relieving this is._ ”

“Yep.” Malcolm gritted his teeth. “It’s just me and van Gogh over here.”

“ _As it should be. Well, as long as you’re happy and there are no murders--”_

“There’s been a murder!”

Malcolm spun around at the outburst to see a security guard bursting through the doors. He stopped, huffing, and put his hands on his knees. “I need help!” he repeated. “Someone call the police!”

“ _Malcolm? Malcolm?_ ”

Malcolm lowered the phone. “...I have to go.”

“ _Malcolm Whitly, you better--_ ”

Malcolm hung up and started towards the guard. He took his ID out of his jacket pocket and held it up. “My name’s Malcolm Bright, I’m a behavioral analyst and consultant for the NYPD.”

“Found him just now,” the officer wheezed. “Body’s still warm.”

“May I see?”

The officer nodded and pulled out a radio as they walked. “This is Officer Lindsay, we need to lock this place down. I repeat: all units, close off the exits, we’re on Code Grey, Code Grey. Follow me,” he added to Malcolm.

They walked up another flight of stairs, people murmuring anxiously as they wondered what was happening. Malcolm followed Officer Lindsay into a small room. “What is this exhibit?”

“Greek and Roman,” Lindsay replied hurriedly. “He looks like he was just killed. Brace yourself.”

Malcolm brushed past Lindsay to walk into the crime scene and stopped. In the center of the large room was a man posed against a small cement block. He was slumped over, but the block held him upright. What was most interesting was the fact that he had been stripped of his shirt, and there was a concerning amount of blood pouring from a gaping wound in his side. 

Malcolm skirted around to get a closer look and was surprised to find this blood loss was caused by a missing left arm. It had been cut off halfway through the corpse’s bicep.

Malcolm stood up. “I’m going to call Gil Arroyo from Organized Crime and he can get a forensic team on site,” he explained to Lindsay, who nodded weakly.

Gil picked up on the second ring: “ _How’s the art museum?_ ”

“About that,” Malcolm said, “You need to come over here.”

Gil took in a deep breath and his long exhale made the phone ring with feedback. “ _Why is it always you?_ ”

“I assure you, I did not kill anybody. But, yes, someone was killed.”

“ _Yeah, I gathered,_ ” Gil replied. “ _We’ll be there in ten minutes._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Objet Trouvé: French for "found object". Also used to explain that anything could be considered art if you think about it a certain way.
> 
> The title, Trompe l'Oeil, means "to deceive the eye".
> 
> I hope you like it so far! Many a twist awaits.


	2. All'antica

“The Thomas Quincy Art Institute in downtown Manhattan is known for its unique structure and dazzling artwork, but this isn’t a pretty picture. Just moments ago, the NYPD was called in to investigate a murder that occured during today’s morning hours. Inside sources say the body of 52-year-old Wesley Riggins was found mutilated in the Greek and Roman exhibit, and the murderer may still be inside the museum.

“As of right now, the NYPD has locked down the galleries, so no visitors can enter or exit the building. We here at Channel 5 are standing outside the scene now and await any further updates. I’m Ainsley Whitly with the latest. Back to you, Neil.”

* * *

“I’m not a fan of Greek sculpture,” Edrisa remarked as she bent down to observe the body. “I mean, I get the whole ‘historical accomplishments’ thing, but there’s only so many positions one can stand seeing a nude man in.”

Gil looked up slowly, his eyebrows raised.

Edrisa flushed. “As I was saying,” she said quickly, “Mr. Riggins’ COD was most likely exsanguination from the amputation, but we’ll run a tox and autopsy in the lab. I’d also like to mention the blood trail.”

“What about it?” Dani asked, walking up to the red smears on the ground.

“As we all know, Mr. Riggins’ arm is nowhere in sight,” Edrisa explained. She drew her finger along the line of bloody scuff marks. “Most likely, this killer took it with him, that way.”

“Maybe as a souvenir,” Malcolm volunteered, waving as he re-entered the room. “Killers do like reminiscing their accomplishments. Keeping the arm could let him relive the thrill--it sparks pride, even excitement.”

“Sure you don’t have it?” JT muttered.

Malcolm ignored him. “Another thing,” he declared, “I just spoke to the head of security. This place does not have cameras.”

Dani raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Nothing to guard the art?”

Malcolm shook his head. “This building is constantly being rebuilt, refurbished,” he explained, “and they didn’t want all the pains of constantly installing and uninstalling cameras.”

“But they’ll go through the pains of knocking down walls and adding weird crap,” Gil mused skeptically.

Malcolm turned to him, surprised. “I thought you liked art.”

“I like art. I don’t like...whatever the hell this is.” Gil motioned to a wiry structure next to the staircase.

“Hey guys,” Dani cut in, “check this out.”

Malcolm walked over. Dani was standing by the weapons case. In the center of the velvet board was an empty space.

“This just made everything a whole lot worse,” Gill groaned. He took a radio from his belt and held it to his mouth.

“This is Arroyo, we need SWAT immediately at the Thomas Quincy Art Institute. Suspect is on the run, he or she is armed with a…” he looked expectantly at Malcolm, who turned at the board.

“Roman gladius,” Malcolm read aloud.

“...Roman gladius.”

“ _Copy that,_ ” someone buzzed over the feed. “ _We’ll call ‘em in._ ”

Gil holstered the radio and turned back to the team. He put his hands on his hips. “What’s a Roman gladius and why the hell is it missing?”

“The gladius is a common shortsword used in Ancient Rome,” Malcolm explained. “It’s roughly fifteen inches long, and was the most popular weapon until the spartha was developed. It’s heavy, but sharp. It can cut through tough materials almost like butter.”

“I don’t want to know how you know that,” JT sighed. 

“I do!” Edrisa chirped.

“He’s got a weird hobby,” Dani summarized.

“I’ll say,” Edirsa chuckled. “What exactly do you spend time penetrating?”

Silence. Gil put his face in his hands.

“That came out wrong,” Edrisa stammered.

Malcolm smiled uneasily.

“O- _kay_ ,” JT said awkwardly, “we still haven’t discussed the possibility of this gladius being our murder weapon.”

“That’s most likely the case,” Malcolm confirmed. “Although there are no cameras, there _is_ heavy front security.”

“We need access to all visitor logs this past week,” Gil ordered. “Edrisa, you’re all clear whenever you’re done. JT, start rounding up officers and taking statements. Powell, you and Bright head to the precinct--Dani, I’ve got Anderson running employee background checks. Get the lab report if it’s ready, too. Bright, you do what you do.” He turned around and walked down the stairs. “We’ve got an armed suspect loose in a museum of 200-plus people! Get to work, everyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All'antica: Italian for "in the manner of the ancients". Used to describe art that revives the past, specifically Ancient Rome.
> 
> That was a fast update; I couldn't wait to jump into the case! I'm starting to get a feel for how this goes. The next chapter might be slow because it's a lot of moving around and talking the case in more detail, but I hope I can make it enjoyable. For starters, Malcolm's going to ask around about the missing arm, and there's one person in particular who can help...


	3. Gestalt

Malcolm sat alone at his desk, poring over the crime scene photos. He flipped through the folder, reviewing lab reports and feeling useless. There was so much information to go on, but at the moment, he couldn’t think. His thoughts were muddled, and he couldn’t suppress a yawn. Normally, he could stand to not sleep for a night or three, but right now, the energy felt drained out of his muscles.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Malcolm closed the case file and ran a shaky hand over his face.

“Gil sent the list of visitors and their background checks,” Dani announced as she walked into the bullpen. She stopped when she noticed Malcolm’s stormy expression. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm lied, then stopped himself. He rubbed his forehead and gestured to the photos. “I’m getting absolutely nowhere.”

Dani pulled up a chair next to his desk. “Well,” she tried helpfully, “you’ve got your profile, and I’ve got a list of 214 visitors in this museum. We could go through names and see who’s free to leave.”

Malcolm sighed heavily. His hand quaked on the desk.

“Who are we looking for?” Dani prompted. “What do _you_ look for?”

“I look at the victim,” Malcolm said. “Why Wesley Riggins? Why this exhibit, this weapon, this signature? What did he do? What _didn’t_ he do, and why? Why did he cut off the left arm? Why did he keep it? Why did he keep the weapon?” His voice raised. “I just can’t, Dani. I cannot deal with this right now.” 

Dani started to speak, but Malcolm cut her off with a wry laugh. “It’s almost ironic, right? And there’s so much information, but I have absolutely _nothing_ because I’m _tired_ , okay? I’m _tired_ and we haven’t even made a dent in this case yet. I’m _sorry_.”

“Bright,” Dani said firmly. She reached out and gripped both of Malcolm’s shaking hands in hers. He stopped and looked up.

“Bright,” Dani repeated, “take a breath. Calm down. And when you’re ready, you can help me.”

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply. He gave a resolute nod and opened his eyes.

“I’m ready,” he breathed, pulling away. He reopened the file and spread the photos on his desk. “Give me that list.”

* * *

Gil closed his phone and turned to JT. “Powell just sent Bright’s profile and a list of people we can send home.”

JT nodded. “I’ll go work with the security head, go through the names.”

Gil returned the nod and the two of them shuffled down the stairs. They were about to turn the corner when an irate woman stormed over. “Hey, you!” she shouted. “Are you the police?”

“For the love of God,” Gil muttered, but flashed her a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I have tickets to the theater that I’m late for,” the woman scowled. “What is going on?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we needed to keep everyone in the museum for the public’s safety,” Gil explained.

“Safety? There are SWAT officers outside, and a murderer running loose, and you really think you can just keep us here?”

Gil gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry you’re late, but we’re running names right now at the NYPD and we’ll let you know when you're clear to go.”

The woman scoffed. “‘Clear to go’? Am I a suspect?”

“No. We’re just trying to be safe here.”

“You’re not doing a very good job,” the woman snapped. “Leaving these people in a museum with a killer.” When Gil and JT exchanged confused looks, the woman continued. “Yeah, I’m watching the news right now, and you have no right to keep this information from us!” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m going to have to speak with your manager.”

JT swallowed his laughter and Gil held up his badge. “Lieutenant Arroyo with Organized Crime. This building is under our jurisdiction right now, so if you’ll sit tight and be patient, I’m sure you will be out of here in no time. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my partner and I will be going now.”

The woman huffed, but gave a curt nod. Gil and JT hurried down the rest of the stairs.

“Thing is, Karen over there was right,” JT pointed out. “We’ve got a whole building full of innocent people and a killer running around.”

“Which is why we need to transfer these names and get people cleared.” Gil knocked on the door of the security office. A muffled voice told them to enter.

“I’ve got a list of visitors that can leave,” Gil announced, handing someone the file. “Get them out as safe as possible. JT, let’s start running interviews. Oh,” he added, “call Bright first and get him to get his sister and her team off the damn property.”

* * *

“Ainsley took her crew away from the museum,” Malcolm informed Dani.

“Not gonna help if our suspect watches the news,” Dani sighed, gesturing to the TV. “This’ll really get him going.”

“Nonetheless,” Malcolm said brightly, “we still need to narrow the search.”

“I’m waiting on Edrisa’s report. What’ve we got?”

A slow smile spread across Malcolm’s face. “It’s not what _I’ve_ got,” he corrected her, pulling out his phone. “I may have a contact with extensive knowledge on human anatomy as well as art.”

Dani furrowed her brow. Malcolm pressed a few buttons on the phone and Martin Whitly picked up on the first ring: “ _Malcolm, my boy, what a pleasant surprise!_ ”

“Hello, Dr. Whitly,” Malcolm greeted coolly.

“ _Oh, it’s really been a while. I was getting lonely, I must admit. Mr. David is excellent company, I assure you, but there’s only so much stoic silence a man can take._ ”

“We need your help.”

“ _‘We’? And who might ‘we’ be? Is it Gil? Hm, no, I bet he’s on the scene right now._ ”

“We really don’t have time for this.”

Martin ignored him. “ _I bet you’re with Daaaaaaniiii,_ ” he sang.

“We’ve got Thomas Quincy on lockdown. A man has been killed in unusual circumstances,” Dani interrupted, her voice clipped.

“ _Ah, hello; I was right! I really must say, my boy, you are quite the ladies’ man. Not that I’m assuming,_ ” he added quickly, “ _I’m proud of you whichever way you swing, as they say. But, I digress! Tell me about this murder of yours._ ”

“He was found in the Greek-Roman exhibit,” Malcolm explained. “Left arm amputated at the bicep, shows hesitation marks. We think he stole a Roman gladius, killed the vic, and took the arm and sword with him.”

Martin hummed. “ _Amputation is a neat little thing,_ ” he remarked. “ _Performed many myself--in the operating room, of course. You say he took the arm? That’s odd._ ”

“Odd?”

“ _Really, Malcolm,_ ” Martin tutted, “ _we both know limbs are trophies. But if the amputation was the cause of death, I’d say the goal was taking the arm. Which means your killer didn’t mean to cause death._ ”

“Hence the hesitation marks,” Malcolm agreed. “Which means we need to figure out what this killer is doing with the arm. And he’s only going to escalate until he finishes.” He was about to hang up, but Martin exclaimed.

“ _One more thing!_ ”

“What?”

“ _This killer is still in the museum,_ ” Martin pointed out, “ _running around with a sword and an arm. Not exactly inconspicuous.”_

“He must have some sort of hiding spot,” Malcolm realized.

“ _A freezer, specifically, if he’s using the arm for something,_ ” Martin clarified. 

“The institute doesn’t have a freezer.”

“ _Not one you know about, anyway. And with that dramatic and mysterious note, I leave you! Hugs and kisses to your sister, and give your girl Dani a peck for me, too. Bye!_ ”

The line went dead.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm told Dani.

“It’s...no problem,” she replied slowly. “You’re dad’s a serious--”

“--Believe me, I know.”

“So now what? We look for a freezer or something?”

“Not exactly. Dr. Whitly mentioned that this killer has a place to hide. Gil has officers canvassing the floors, but we’re not going to get anything.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Malcolm reminded her, “this institute has stood for centuries. There must be all kinds of secrets.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means,” Malcolm said, “whoever killed Wesley Riggins has inside information.” He jumped out of his chair and started towards the door.

“Bright! Where are you going?”

Malcolm didn’t break his stride as he made his way across the bullpen. “Our killer’s an employee!” he called over his shoulder. Then he pushed through the glass doors, leaving Dani no choice but to follow him before he hijacked her squad car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gestalt: (loosely) German word for "form". Used by psychologists to describe human cognition, and used in art to "explain the visual phenomena that underlie optical illusions" (artsy.net).
> 
> Gil really pulled his "I am the manager" card and then the "get off my lawn" card in one go, didn't he?


	4. Encadrer

Mr. Lindsay sat in a small chair at the end of a creaky table in the museum cafe. Dani had argued that it was protocol for suspects to be interviewed at the precinct, but Malcolm had refused, saying that technically these weren’t suspects yet and if they were, being at the scene of the crime, inches away from their hiding spot but unable to get their trophies, would certainly make the killer sweat.

This went in one ear and out the other for everyone, who gave a reluctant, halfhearted nod and summed Malcolm’s speech up as _You guys never let me interview anyone because of my flair for the dramatic so I am going to use this opportunity to its full extent._ It seemed accurate enough.

It was accurate; in the present, Malcolm was being--in Dani’s opinion--dramatic as hell. He instructed Gil to dim the lights and keep the window blinds open. When he first entered the cafe, he didn’t say a word--he still wasn’t. He simply paced, running a hand over his stubble and narrowing his eyes at Lindsay.

Watching from the window, JT leaned over to whisper in Gil’s ear. “Is this dude ever gonna talk or are we just standin’ here waiting for Lindsay to pull an arm out of his ass?”

“Let him work,” Gil murmured.

“He’s been there for five minutes, Gil,” Dani groaned.

Gil put a finger to his lips and gestured to Malcolm, who finally took a seat at the table and folded his hands together. “Officer,” he greeted coolly, “how’s your marriage?”

“What the hell?” JT whispered.

“ _Bright_ ,” Dani hissed, loud enough for Malcolm to hear.

Malcolm gave her a dismissive wave and continued to stare at Lindsay expectantly. The security guard shuffled his feet and looked down.

“It’s good, I guess,” he mumbled.

“That’s not what I think,” Malcolm countered. “I think you recently filed for divorce.”

“What?”

“Your wedding ring,” Malcolm observed, “you’ve been twisting quite furiously these past few minutes. That’s nerves. Anxiety. You’re hiding something that’s very important. But what?”

“I’m not divorcing my wife,” Lindsay stammered.

“I know that,” Malcolm said.

“What?” JT said again.

“He just--I don’t even care anymore,” Dani sighed.

“You just said I was gonna divorce my wife,” Lindsay insisted.

Malcolm didn’t seem to pay attention to him. He was fixated on the ring. After a moment of silence, he held out his hand. “May I?”

When Lindsay passed it over, Malcolm continued his monologue: “So this marriage of yours--14 years?”

“17.”

“17.” Malcolm gave a thoughtful hum. “I’ve never had much luck with dating.”

“Oh?” Lindsay asked.

“But then again, you have,” Malcolm went on. “I wonder what Jake would say if you went to jail?”

“Jake?” Gil whispered to himself.

“He would be pretty bummed,” Malcolm sighed. “Your anxieties have to do with your marriage, Lindsay, and your wife would definitely not be too thrilled when she hears about how you cut off a man’s arm to satisfy--”

“What?” Lindsay exclaimed. “I did no such thing!”

“Interesting that you were at the crime scene first,” Malcolm mused. “Where had you been before?”

“The Roman space is very large,” Lindsay explained. “I didn’t make it back to the sword room until later.”

“Very large? The Roman space is only three rooms.”

“I have to make sure everything is in its place.”

“What’s with the lack of cameras? All this precious stuff.”

“We renovate often. The bill would be too high.”

“Hm. Likely story. Or are you just that good at keeping secrets? Everyone is keeping secrets here.”

“What the hell is he on about?” JT asked. “Boss, you need to pull the plug on this; we’re wasting time.”

“That’s right, Lindsay,” Malcolm crowed, “secrets. Jake knows.”

“What does this have to do about Jake?”

“I don’t know. What? Do you consider him a secret?”

Lindsay flushed. Gil marched in the room and grabbed Malcolm by the bicep, dragging him out of the room. “He’s not our guy, Bright. I’m so sorry,” he added to Lindsay. When he left, Gil closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

“We’re here for the _murder,_ Bright,” he said in exasperation, “not internal affairs. You’re not allowed to interview anyone else. JT, watch him.”

JT glowered and looked like he was about to protest, but silenced himself after noticing the stress on Gil’s face. He gave a reluctant nod and crossed his arms, shaking his head.

“Well, that was five minutes I'll never get back,” Gil huffed. “Who’s next?”

* * *

Dani took a seat in front of the janitor, Jacob Grey. “How long have you been with the institute?”

\-----

“Two years,” a tour guide, Earl Smith, said confidently from where he sat across from Gil.

“And what’s your area of expertise at Thomas Quincy?”

\-----

“I’m an interior designer.”

“Assistant curator.”

“Inventory manager.”

“Security guard.”

“Workers compensation specialist.”

\-----

“I see,” Dani nodded. “Have you bumped heads with anyone here? Any problems?”

\-----

“Charlie Orville.”

“Charles Orville.”

“Orville.”

“That would be Charlie.”

“Orville, the rat bastard.”

\-----

“Oh?” Gil raised his eyebrows. “And what about him?”

\-----

“Looks at women a lot.”

“Lazy worker. Fools around.”

“Real loner type, y’know?”

“Picks fights.”

“Says strange stuff. He’s kind of inappropriate.”

\-----

“That’ll be all. Thank you for your time.”

\-----

“A SWAT personnel will escort you out of the building.”

* * *

Dani and Gil sent the last employee on their way and met in the lobby.

“Charles Orville,” Dani said. “Apparently, he has quite the record. Nothing criminal, petty stuff--peeping, juvenile offenses.”

“Bright mentioned that a Roman gladius is heavy. What’s he look like?”

“I’d say good. Built. He could definitely run with a heavy sword.”

“Okay, so where is Orville now?”

“He’s dead.”

Dani and Gil whipped around to see JT jogging towards them, holding a chair.

“Charles Orville, supervising construction worker? He’s been killed,” he said hurriedly.

“What? When?” Gil asked.

“Just now, apparently.”

Dani cursed. Gil ran a hand over his face and sighed heavily. “It’s been four hours. Where’s Bright?”

JT didn’t respond.

“JT,” Dani repeated, hands on her hips. “Where did he go?”

“I’ll explain on the way there,” JT said, already turning around to hurry back up the stairs.

“Explain what on the way where?” Gil asked frustratedly, his voice echoing in the quiet museum. “JT, I told you not to leave him!”

“I didn’t,” JT insisted indignantly, “he vanished. Literally.”

“‘Literally’? What?”

“Through the trap door,” JT added sheepishly. “Next to the tunnel.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Hey, don’t blame me ‘cause the kid’s a dumbass!” JT exclaimed indignantly.

“JT, stop!” Dani shouted, grabbing his arm. She crossed her arms. “I’m not moving until you tell us everything that just happened in the past four hours.”

JT looked exasperated. He shifted the chair in his hands and held his arms out to Gil. “Get me outta this damn thing first.”

Dani and Gil suddenly realized JT was handcuffed to the back of the chair.

“Don’t laugh,” JT growled. Then, with an annoyed sigh, he explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Encadrer: "to frame"
> 
> t'was only a matter of time before bright did something not so bright. in case of any next-chapter confusion, the next bit will start back from when Gil and Dani start interviewing employees, only from JT and Malcolm's point of view and what led to...well, that.  
> There's also more to Charlie Orville that meets the eye--as well as everyone else. Is he the killer? If not, why is everyone so convinced he is?  
> This is probably not going to be very long because I'm still experimenting with case fics. However, I do have some interesting things planned.


	5. Avant-Garde

_FOUR HOURS AGO:_

“What the hell was that?” JT scoffed as he escorted Malcolm out of the cafe.

“Something isn’t right,” Malcolm insisted. “No cameras, minimal security, constantly re-hiring employees--everyone’s hiding something.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t mean to expose a dude, Bright. Have you ever even interviewed anyone in your life?”

“I was FBI, Jaxson--”

“--It’s ‘JT’--”

“--I’ve conducted a few interviews in my time.”

JT was going to mention that Malcolm had also been _fired_ by the FBI, but he was silenced when Officer Lindsay walked by, looking tense. He gave JT a curt nod and wrung his hands anxiously. “Where can I go?”

“We can direct you to SWAT,” Malcolm obliged, turning towards the exit. JT furrowed his brow in suspicion and exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Lindsay, but nevertheless, Malcolm led the way to the main entrance. At the door, a few SWAT personnel stood guard. JT held up his ID.

One of the officers was about to take over when Malcolm suddenly bent over, grabbing onto Lindsay for support. Lindsay stumbled, but held onto him, unsure of what was going on. Malcolm fumbled for a grip and latched onto his belt, swallowing repetitively.

“You good?” JT asked.

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. “‘M gonna be sick,” he mumbled.

“Oh, hell no,” JT groaned, grabbing Malcolm by the sleeve and pulling him away from SWAT and down the tile. Lindsay started to say something, but his words were drowned out by SWAT talking into their radios and ushering him out the door.

JT and Malcolm stumbled through the hall until they reached the restrooms, and without knowing what else to do, JT opened the door and threw Malcolm inside. He covered his ears at the sound of painful retching.

After a while, Malcolm came out, looking shaky but otherwise normal. “Sorry,” he apologized, “it’s all a bit much.”

“I get it,” JT sympathised, “this is a lot to take in.” He was slightly surprised that Malcolm was affected by murder at all, but he had to hand it to the kid for keeping it together this long.

“Over here?” Malcolm suggested, gesturing to a seat back in one of the Roman rooms.

JT took a seat on a bench and pulled out his phone. Malcolm leaned over his shoulder to watch. “You have Candy Crush?”

“Personal space, dude.”

A little time went by, and JT was getting impatient until his phone buzzed. A glance at the screen confirmed that the NYPD morgue was calling him. He clicked the answer button. “Edrisa?”

“ _I have the autopsy report and tox scan of Wesley Riggins,_ ” Edrisa buzzed over the line. “ _You guys weren’t at the precinct, and Dani wasn’t answering my calls, so I sent it to your phone._ ”

“Thanks, Edrisa.”

“ _No problem! Anything new?_ ”

“That’s new,” Malcolm commented from the other side of the exhibit.

“ _Was that Bright?_ ”

“I gotta go,” JT told Edrisa. “Thanks for the reports; I’ll forward them to Gil.”

“ _Yep! Tell Bright I say hi._ ” And then Edrisa hung up.

JT walked over to Malcolm, who was staring down at something behind the glass panels protecting decorative Greek vases. In the corner of the display was a small puddle of blood.

Malcolm moved around to the side of the display and felt along the glass until his hands reached a small nook. He pulled, and the glass door swung open. He crouched down and slipped on a pair of latex gloved from his pocket. JT squatted down beside him.

Just above the blood spot was a shelf containing pieces of decorated rock. It had to be centuries old; priceless sculptures from Ancient Greece.

Malcolm reached up and, one by one, took the stones off the display and slid them away without a second thought.

“Bright,” JT hissed, “if we break something, I ain’t paying for it.”

Malcolm ignored him and pulled another slab from the shelf. This time, though, it didn’t come off. It twisted, and JT heard a small _click_ from inside the wall. Hesitantly, Malcolm pushed the shelf and it swung inside.

It was a small sort of broom closet, 3-by-5 feet and around 7 feet tall. And crammed inside was the body of a construction worker. His leg was missing and so was his shirt, but unlike Riggins, this wasn’t the only aspect of the murder. This victim's torso was decorated in a myriad of stab wounds.

Malcolm wavered on his feet.

JT took a step back. “Don’t hurl on me.”

“No, um...I just need to sit,” Malcolm whispered, and JT took his arm and pushed him into a chair. He sat in the one next to him, feeling quite uncomfortable as he pushed Malcolm’s head between his knees and patted the spot in between his shoulder blades awkwardly.

“That's Charles Orville,” he said in surprise. “Dani was about to interview him. And he’s got a limb amputated--same as Riggins.”

“But this is personal,” Malcolm added. “The overkill suggests rage, passion.”

His gag was muffled by his pants, but JT cringed nonetheless, even more so when Malcolm reached out blindly and pinned his wrists to the chair.

JT released one of his wrists from Malcolm's death grip. “I’m going to tell Gil what we found,” he said slowly.

Malcolm let out another dry heave in response.

JT took his free hand and felt around his belt for a radio.

It wasn’t there.

“Did I leave my radio with Gil?” he asked Malcolm.

No response.

“Bright. Hey, still with me?”

Malcolm looked up sheepishly and stood up.

“Where are you going?” JT asked, his words clipped with annoyance.

“I’ll be right back,” Malcolm promised.

“That’s not an answer, Bright!”

Malcolm started back towards the worker’s body and stepped into the closet. JT stood up to follow him, but was jerked back into his seat. He looked down to find that his wrist was still pinned to the chair via Officer Lindsay’s handcuffs.

Everything clicked.

“You’re an ass,” JT growled.

Malcolm held up his radio. “Look, I’ve got backup.”

“There’s no need for ‘backup’, Bright; it’s a damn closet! Now uncuff me and _get Gil_.”

Malcolm straddled the worker’s body and felt the ground around him. After a moment, he stopped. His hand grasped a small metal pin.

“Don’t do it,” JT warned, standing up with the chair in his hands.

Malcolm smiled. “Here goes nothing!”

And then he pulled the pin and dropped through the floor, out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avant-Garde: French; “the advanced guard”. Used as a military term to describe soldiers who scout out a terrain before the rest of the troop. Used as an art term to describe people who stir up controversy to support their own ideas.
> 
> Google History: "how to make a trap door", "secret sliding glass panels", "use of human body parts", "fancy art terms", "how much do legs go on the dark web", "use of human sacrifice", "cults and art"


	6. Duende

_NOW:_

In the distance, Gil pinched the bridge of his nose and repeated something under his breath; JT imagined it was something along the lines of _dumbass, dumbass, dumbass_ \--at least, that’s what Dani was muttering as she uncuffed JT.

The handcuffs fell to the ground with a small clack, and JT picked them up to tuck around his belt. Gil finished his silent rage session and joined them, hands on his hips: “What the hell happens now?”

“We get him, I guess,” Dani proposed.

“Nuh-uh,” JT said with a defiant shake of his head. “I’m not squeezing down some dark hole because this dude decided to go all Indiana Jones on us. Here’s what happens--we call a team, hell, probably tactical. Get medics on standby. And do this like it’s supposed to be done.”

Gil was about to agree, but the buzzing radio on his hip said otherwise: “ _Hello? Gil?_ ”

He ripped off the radio off his belt and stormed a few yards away. “Bright,” he growled, “stay where you are.”

Silence. Then, a scraping noise, like rock being shifted over rock.

“Malcolm?”

A creak. A click.

“ _Um, that’s a problem._ ”

“Yeah, no shit!”

“ _No. I don’t mean that._ ”

“...What do you mean?”

A clatter. A shout.

A bang.

* * *

The radio in Malcolm’s hand shook as his hand trembled. A steady _drip-drip_ echoed through the tunnel. It was concrete, and dark. If he looked up, Malcolm could see where he dropped--a small rectangle of light hung in the sky.

Something clinked in the distance.

Now, in this situation, there are a few choices. One: push the body off you. Climb the ladder on the wall and wait for the rest of your much more experienced team members to provide necessary backup and efficiently storm the dark tunnel together. Or, push the body off you and go after the mysterious noise down the deep, dark tunnel.

Technically, Malcolm did both. He pushed the body of Charles Orville off him and reached for the radio that had tumbled a few feet away. He squinted in the dark and finally: “Hello? Gil?”

The radio crackled with feedback: “ _Bright. Stay where you are,_ ” Gil ordered on the other end.

Unfortunately, that’s when the plan backfired.

Malcolm rolled the rest of Charlie’s body off him and scooted to the right. As he did so, his hand pressed the wall. 

Pressed the wall?

Malcolm turned to look at his hand. A slab of concrete pushed inwards like a button.

Malcolm let go, and the world tilted. The ground shifted like a wheel, turning, bringing Malcolm with it until he was on the other side of the wall.

This room was different. Unlike the dank concrete tunnel, this new area was flooded with light from multiple naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Save for the concrete wheel underneath him, Malcolm noticed the ground was wooden. In the center of the room was a large rug covered with designs, words, indistinguishable emblems.

It was almost pretty if not for the fact that three assault rifles were being cocked and held in front of him at point-blank range.

Malcolm brought the radio back to his mouth. “Um,” he said meekly, “that’s a problem.”

“ _Yeah, no shit!_ ” Gil hissed.

“No. I don't mean that.”

“... _What do you mean?_ ”

Malcolm gulped and shifted his head to see if there was some sort of reverse switch, because right now he really favored the dark tunnel.

He didn’t get time to check.

The barrel of one of the guns leaned forward and pressed into his chest. Malcolm stumbled, then, without knowing what else to do, grabbed the gun and twisted it away from him.

_Bang!_ The gunshot bore a small hole in the wall next to his head and bits of rock showered the floor. Malcolm ducked down and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, okay!” he shouted quickly. “Okay! What do you want?”

“How did you get here?” someone demanded.

Malcolm gulped. “I, uh, sort of dropped in.”

Everyone was wearing masks--no, paint. Their faces and necks were coated in colorful paint--blue, green, red. A lot of red. No, a very concerning amount of red that did not exactly look like paint, dripping onto their white robes and staining their shoulders with what most likely was blood.

A new person reached out and pressed his hand to Malcolm’s cheek, where a small gash was welling from his fall. He swirled his fingers around, smearing blood on Malcolm’s face, then sat back. His face split into a devilish grin.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

_Drip. Drip._ The blood ran down his face and spattered onto the floor.

The man held out his hand, his fingers coated in Malcolm’s blood. “Come with me,” he cooed.

Without knowing what else to do, Malcolm took his hand and let himself be lifted to his feet, guns still trained on him. He ducked down to avoid getting hit by the low-hanging bulbs and followed the people across the room, through the open doorway.

The people stopped and formed a small semicircle around him. One by one, they bowed, then looked expectantly at Malcolm.

Awkwardly, he took a bow, and was rewarded with the butt of a gun hitting him in the temple.

* * *

“Bright?” Gil called into the gun. “ _Malcolm._ What’s going on?”

No response.

“ _Shit,_ ” Dani cursed, running a hand over her face. “Now what?”

“We don’t have a choice,” JT groaned, moving towards the Roman room.

Gil and Dani followed. The three of them pried the glass door back open and trained their flashlights down the opening in the closet. At the bottom of the hole was Charles Orville’s mutilated body, but no sign of Malcolm.

“Bright?” Dani called.

Nothing. Her voice echoed down the hole.

“I’m not waiting,” Gil said, tucking his gun into its holster. “Let’s go.”

“Gil!” JT exclaimed in exasperation. “No offense, but that’s exactly what you don’t do!”

“JT.” Gil’s voice was laced with a desperation they weren’t familiar with. “I heard a gunshot. A _gunshot._ If Bright--Malcolm--if he--”

“He’s not going to,” Dani said firmly, holstering her own weapon.

Gil nodded shakily before climbing down the ladder into the tunnel. Dani followed, and JT shook his head.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, “this boy better be thankful.”

He climbed to the bottom and redrew his gun. Dani and Gil shined lights down the tunnel, and the three of them crept along, hunched over because of the low ceiling. On their way down, they passed the slab of wall Malcolm had pressed.

“Bright?” Gil hissed, keeping his voice down.

“Gil,” Dani said softly. “Look.”

She gestured to the wall, where a small camera blinked with red light.

“Budget restraints my ass,” JT blurted out.

Gil ignored him, walking along until a small _click_ made him stop. He lowered his light to the ground, where his foot had caught a small wire.

“What the hell?” he murmured.

Suddenly, the wall turned.

“ _Gil!_ ” Dani and JT shouted, but it was no use.

Gil had disappeared on the other side of the wall.

Dani stepped over the wire and hurried across the tunnel, JT hot on her trail. They came up short when they were greeted with nothing but a stone wall.

“Wait a minute,” JT said, pushing past Dani to reach out and run his hands along the corner of the tunnel. 

Sure enough, something clicked, just as it did in the exhibit. The stone wall swung open, revealing another tunnel. However, it wasn’t made of rock or concrete. The walls were hard-packed earth and wooden planks lined the floor. Yellow light bulbs lined the ceiling--honestly, if they didn’t know better, Dani and JT would’ve thought it was a coal mine.

“Do we go in?” Dani asked tentatively. “Maybe we should go back and try to find them from there.”

The offer was tempting, but JT hardened. “Gil’s missing,” he said slowly, “and as much as I hate to admit it, the team ain’t the same without Bright.”

“So...yes?”

JT took a breath. “Leave no man behind.”

Dani gave a firm nod.

They kept going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duende: Spanish; the mysterious power art has to move a person. Ba-dum tssss!
> 
> Happy Father's day to everyone except Martin Whitly.


	7. Fin de Siècle

Malcolm didn’t exactly know what was going on. There was only one clear, cognizant thought in his mind, and that was _ouch._ He was lying on the ground, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and there was a dull throbbing in the side of his head--probably from where it had connected with a gun, and then the ground.

He let himself be shifted--no, more dragged--across the ground by his arms. The surface beneath him changed from concrete to metal, and he slid across the floor. His shirt hitched up as he was pulled along, and the ground was icy cold against his skin.

Then whoever brought him here left, and shut the door with a loud _clang._ A knob twisted, then locked.

Malcolm laid there, not knowing what else to do. His teeth chattered; luckily, the temperature didn’t seem freezing enough to induce frostbite or hypothermia, but it was still uncomfortably cold. Malcolm could see his breath fog up the air in front of him.

Another noise--the scraping sound of rock over rock. It sounded like the tunnel that had gotten him into this situation. Malcolm sat up and turned around to see a panel of wall be replaced by stone. And on the rotating ground was Gil, looking very pissed off. This expression only increased tenfold when they made eye contact.

“Gil!” Malcolm exclaimed triumphantly. “What are you doing here?”

No response. Gil glowered. Malcolm gulped.

“In my defense,” he said quickly, “I brought a radio.”

* * *

Dani and JT edged along the hallway, guns drawn and flashlights beaming around the narrow walls. Despite the light bulbs, it was still dark, and they had to squint to see.

They reached a dead end. On either side was a tunnel. JT peeked in one--stairs, leading downwards.

A quick glance decided it was best to go the other way.

They made a left, inching along, in silence until Dani spoke up: “This is elaborate. How long do you think this system has been in the works?”

“The museum’s a couple centuries old,” JT pointed out. “There’s probably all sorts of wacky nonsense going on down here. This way,” he added, as they turned another corner.

Nothing. A white room. The ground had become pristine tile, muddied by their own dusty footprints. The temperature was about a degree cooler, but what was most interesting were the hieroglyphics on the wall.

Dani took a step forward and the door behind them slid shut.

JT cursed, running his hands along the corner of the wall, but there was no latch.

Dani brought the radio to her mouth. “This is Powell with Organized Crime requesting backup immediately--”

“-- _owell--cutti--ckup--whe--_ ”

“Great,” Dani muttered, hitting her palm against the radio a couple times. “I think we’re out of range.”

“Means we’re pretty deep underground,” JT concluded. “So are Gil and Bright. Anything from them?”

Dani took her phone out of her pocket and dialed Gil.

_Ring. Ring. Ri--_ “ _Dani, can you hear us?_ ”

“Yes, I can,” Dani exclaimed with a surprised laugh. Then, she stopped, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Did you say ‘us’?”

“ _Hi, Dani,_ ” Malcolm said sheepishly on the other end.

Dani stifled a curse, and instead said: “Where are you guys?”

“ _Not sure,_ ” Gil said, “ _some sort of freezer._ ”

“Freezer? Are you okay?”

“ _Don’t worry, it’s not that cold. But we, uh, found the missing limbs._ ”

“ _Uh, Gil?”_ Malcolm said suddenly.

Shuffling on the line. Dani and JT exchanged a nervous glance.

Then: “ _NYPD! Don’t move!_ ”

Shouting. The voices layered on top of each other, then Malcolm rose above them: “ _Wait, wait, wait, Gil!_ ”

Silence.

When Malcolm spoke, his voice was tinged with surprise: “ _Officer Lindsay?_ ”

* * *

The door pushed open, and Gil jumped to his feet. “NYPD! Don’t move!” he bellowed.

The man in the doorway wore a white robe, like the others. He took an unsteady step forward. “I just--”

“PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

“WAIT! I CAN EXPLAIN--”

“-- _NOW_ , HANDS UP!--”

Malcolm squinted, then sprung forward. “WAIT, WAIT!” he exclaimed. “WAIT, GIL!”

The shouting stopped. Malcolm edged forward to look at the man’s face. Like the others, it was covered in paint. But unlike the others, this was familiar.

“Officer Lindsay?” he asked.

Lindsay nodded shakily.

Gil holstered his gun. “How did you get here?”

“Behind the _Cafe Terrace at Night_ painting,” Lindsay stammered. “They grabbed me.”

Gil’s phone crackled at his hip. It was JT: “ _Still there, boss?_ ”

“We’re still here,” he said. “Can you find us?”

“ _No, we’re stuck in this room._ ”

“Everything here’s a puzzle,” Malcolm pointed out. “Is there anything in the room?”

“ _A wall of hieroglyphics,_ ” Dani explained. “ _Other than that, everything’s white. How’s it look on your end?_ ”

Gil looked around. “Metal floors,” he described, “Walls look metal, but they’re lined with ice. There are ice blocks in the corner with...yeah. Arms. Legs.”

“Genitals,” Malcolm added helpfully.

“Genitals,” Gil agreed reluctantly. “You get the picture--body parts encased in ice.”

“ _That’s not good. Are you sure it isn’t colder?_ ”

“Pretty sure.”

The temperature dipped.

“Or not,” Lindsay said, gulping.

“Shit,” Gil hissed. “Bright, any ideas in that head of yours?”

Malcolm startled. “Well,” he tried, “I think I have an idea for Dani and Jasper.”

“ _It’s JT._ ”

Malcolm waved his hand dismissively. He took the phone from Gil and talked into it while he scouted the room. “Can you push the hieroglyphics?”

A shifting sound. “ _Yeah, we can,_ ” Dani replied.

“Try them all. Anything?”

“ _...Nothing._ ”

“It must be some sort of code,” Lindsay remarked. He hurried over to Malcolm to take the phone. “Is it a four-by-eight?”

“ _Four-by-eight,_ ” Dani confirmed.

“Four-by-eight,” Lindsay echoed. “I worked in the Ancient Egyptian section when I first came here,” he explained to Gil. “One of my jobs was to memorize the hieroglyphics.”

Gil raised his eyebrows and gestured for him to go on.

“So, the symbols can represent the alphabet,” Lindsay continued. “There’s A-Z, then CH, KH, SH, Man, Woman, and Ankh--the symbol of life. Dani, what order are they in?”

“ _First row--left to right--is a bird, leg, bowl or cup, hand, and...comb?_ ”

“Feather,” Lindsay corrected. “It’s in alphabetical order.”

“ _Fe_ _ather, then. What do we do?_ ”

“...I don’t know. We have to spell something out, though.”

“Fin de Siècle,” Malcolm said suddenly.

“ _What’d you say, Bright?_ ”

“Fin de Siècle,” Malcolm repeated. “It means ‘end of century’ and applies to the 1890s.”

“ _Is that important?_ ”

“That’s when this was built,” Lindsay said. “It's something the museum takes a lot of pride in.”

“Every brochure mentions it,” Malcolm added, rustling through his pockets until he took out a folded-up brochure from the front counter. Sure enough, inside, in bold letters: _THOMAS QUINCY ART INSTITUTE, EST. 1890 IN THE FIN DE SIÉCLE!_

“Try it, try it!” Lindsay said excitedly.

“ _Spell it out!_ ”

Lindsay took the brochure. “F-I-N-D-E-S-I-E-C-L-E,” he read aloud.

Static. Tension. Then: “ _Nothing._ ”

“Ankh,” Lindsay said, “Press the 'Ankh' sign!”

Shifting, then a surprised laugh. _“It worked!”_

“Are you out?” Gil asked.

“ _Don’t know. The door’s unlocked now._ ”

“Okay,” Gil ordered, “go back upstairs and call for EMTs and a crime scene unit on standby. Secure the perimeter. Get a tactical team down here.”

“When you first enter the tunnel, there will be a panel of wall on the side that rotates you to a small room with a large rug and lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling,” Malcolm added. “Across from the room is a doorway. It should lead you to a dark room. I think that’s where everyone went, and we’re right by there.”

“ _You got it._ ”

The line went dead. Gil sighed. “Guess we’re on our own now.”

“It’s a freezer,” Lindsay groaned, “and I don’t think that means we get a code.”

“I don’t think we’ll need one,” Malcolm said slowly.

Gil and Lindsay turned around to look back at the door, Gil drawing his gun.

Four cloaked figures stood in the doorway; Malcolm recognized the first three.

“Come with us,” one of them ordered.

“Who are you?” Gil demanded.

In response, the cloaked man cocked his rifle. The other two figures had revolvers. And the last…

“Is that a Roman gladius?” Malcolm asked carefully.

The figures didn’t respond. “Come with me,” the first one repeated.

The others held up their weapons.

Gil relented. “Okay. Okay. We’re coming.” He raised his arms in surrender.

“Weapons down.”

Gil put down his gun and slid it across the floor. Malcolm and Lindsay stepped forward, arms raised as well.

“Let’s go,” the man ordered. The figures flanked Gil, Malcolm, and Lindsay on all sides, weapons drawn, before moving out of the freezer and back into the large, dark room from before.

Now that he wasn’t being smacked with a gun, Malcolm could take in the scene. It was like a lecture hall; an amphitheater-style sweep of seats lined the walls, but the room was relatively small. On the stage, a single light spotlit the ground, bathing Malcolm and the others in white light. That wasn’t the only thing on the stage, though.

In layman’s terms, it was a head. But in complicated terms, it wasn’t exactly a head. This figure was made entirely of different body parts--legs, arms, heads--piled on each other in a strange sculpture. It was shaped like a human head, but it was around eight feet tall, brushing the ceiling, and the features weren’t right. Hands made up the face. Legs fashioned the neck. Torsos replaced the ears. It was a human head with a gaping mouth and hollow eyes, and Lindsay doubled over to vomit.

“This is…” Gil started.

“...not what you expected?” Malcolm finished.

One of the cloaked figures grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, and stars erupted in his vision. Malcolm was suddenly painfully reminded that he got smacked with the butt of a gun a half hour ago, and he groaned with the harsh pounding in his temple.

The figure was unsympathetic. He gripped a handful of Malcolm’s shirt and half-dragged him to the base of the head, throwing his to his knees. Gil rushed forward, but was stopped by the barrel of a gun digging into his stomach. Lindsay stayed where he was, terrified.

Malcolm raised his hand over his eyes to squint through the spotlight, and the figure pulled out his weapon--the Roman gladius. He crouched down next to Malcolm and poked the blade into his cheek; hard enough to draw blood, but tolerable. Malcolm grimaced.

“The thing is,” he tried, “I think that’s quite the impressive sculpture.”

“It’s unfinished,” the man rumbled.

“Yeah. Um, I could help with that.”

“You can,” the figure agreed. “We need an eye.”

“ _My_ eye?” Malcolm gulped. “Okay, then. Can’t blame you there; I have been told that my eyes are quite--”

“Not _your_ eye _,_ ” the man interrupted. “ _Our_ eye.”

Malcolm glanced up at the head. Sure enough, there were no body parts where the eyes would be; they stayed hollow and empty. He shifted uncomfortably.

“I really don't want my genitals in an ice block,” he mustered.

Behind him, Gil facepalmed.

“We need a head,” the figure said.

“You have a head.”

“We need _your_ head.” And then the cloaked man brandished his sword and swung it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin de Siècle: Well, as it said, art that was created at the end of the 1800s--specifically the decade 1890.
> 
> Well, Malcolm's not in a good place right now. But don't fear--he's always one step a-head! *laugh track*
> 
> Wow, that was a faster update than planned! I had a lot of time on my hand yesterday. Anyways, there are a few more chapters and twists ahead. I'm glad you're sticking around, for those of you still here!
> 
> Also, human head sculpture? Guess who's been re-watching Hannibal.


	8. Trompe l'Oeil

_THWACK!_ The sword hit the ground and stuck. Malcolm had skittered back just in time. Without wasting a second, he grabbed the handle and tried to pull it out of the cloaked man’s grasp.

This was a mistake.

All hell broke loose. The other figures jumped forward and started shooting. Gil pulled Lindsay to the ground and sprinted to the back of the theater. Meanwhile, Malcolm ducked and scurried behind the head sculpture for cover.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_ The bullets tore through the body parts. Malcolm yipped and half-crawled back to the front, raising his arms.

“Wait!” he shouted. “ _Wait!_ Don’t shoot!”

“ _Give me one reason!_ ” one of the figures shouted angrily, thrusting his pistol.

Malcolm hesitated.

“Well,” he tried, “this is a new shirt.”

The man pulled back the hammer.

“ _And, and_ ,” Malcolm stammered, “you shouldn’t kill me, because I want to join your cult!”

Silence. Tension.

The figures lowered their weapons.

Malcolm took this as a sign to continue: “The way you sculpt takes my breath away. Not just because of the human lungs,” he added with a weak chuckle. “Each part fits; all the curves are accentuated. You take a, um, _vulnerable_ body and raise it,”--he gestured to the sculpture--“to art. It’s admirable. There’s care in this. It’s almost loving.”

One of the figures spoke up: “It _is_ loving.” He dropped his gun. “We’re a peaceful community, but no one appreciates our work, so we have no choice but to defend ourselves. We have more sculptures,” he added excitedly, “if you care to look. Paintings, too.”

Malcolm walked forward. “So this whole museum was a cover-up, a way to guard the _real_ art?”

The figure nodded. “A _trompe l’oeil_ ,” he said. “Built by Thomas Quincy himself. Passed down generations.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m a patron of the arts,” Malcolm said. “Care to show me anything?”

The cloaked man nodded enthusiastically. “Come with me.”

He grabbed Malcolm’s hand, and Malcolm exchanged a nervous glance with Gil. He flashed a thumbs-up before letting himself be pulled into another room. Gil followed, eyeing the others wearily. 

This was a room everyone was unfamiliar with. It was covered top-to-bottom with red splatters. Filled canvases leaned on the wall. Plaster, stone, human sculptures littered the floor. Besides the fact that it was a major crime scene, Malcolm was admittedly impressed.

Gil was not. “How many people died as a result of this?” he demanded.

“Oh, no,” the man waved his hand dismissively. “This isn’t death. It’s a _donation_.” He turned back to Malcolm. “Ready for your initiation?” 

Malcolm grinned. He looked a little too excited for someone joining a murderous art cult. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The man held out his sword. “Hold out your arm.”

Malcolm’s smile faltered. “What?”

Another cult figure dusted off a discarded canvas. It was small and blank.

Malcolm did not like what the figure was implying, but he tugged his sleeve up.

“Bright, _no_ ,” Gil warned.

“It’s okay,” Malcolm assured him. He turned back to the figure. “I’m ready to commit.”

Gil took a step forward, but one of the figures raised his gun threateningly, so he stopped. “Bright,” he tried again, but it was no use. Malcolm gave him an apologetic look before holding his bare arm out.

The man chanted something under his breath and took out a small knife. Malcolm couldn’t decipher what he was saying, but then again, he had other things to worry about--such as the blade slowly tracing itself across the soft inner flesh of his forearm. Malcolm would by lying if he said that it wasn’t distracting.

A thin line of blood welled up from where the knife made its mark. The man stopped cutting, gave a final dig, and tucked the still-bloody knife back into his robe. Then, he turned Malcolm’s arm over, brought the canvas underneath the dripping blood, and squeezed.

Malcolm grimaced as a steady trickle of warmth ran down his arm. The group stood in silence, the only sound being the _pat-pat_ of his blood spattering the canvas. Eventually, the man released Malcolm’s arm, and Malcolm cradled it to his chest.

“Bound by blood,” he commented with a wince. “Isn’t that supposed to be metaphorical?”

The man brandished the painting and tilted the frame a little bit, letting the blood run every which way. Then, he took out the knife again. “Other arm.”

Malcolm swallowed. “I don’t think that’s very healthy,” he stammered.

“ _Other arm_ ,” the man repeated, tightening his grip on the hilt.

Malcolm was about to protest when a muffled _SLAM_ came from the other room. “ _NYPD!_ ”

The silence was broken by intermittent radio noises and stomping feet. The cloaked figures looked at each other, then shuffled forward into the main room, hands raised, weapons down.

Gil ran forward and put a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “You okay, kid?”

Malcolm grinned. “Fine!”

But he wavered on his feet, and Gil held his other hand firmly on the gaping wound in his arm. “Sure?”

“Not exactly a scratch,” Malcolm admitted meekly.

“Gil! Bright!”

The two of them turned around to see JT enter the room, gun drawn.

“Jeffery!” Malcolm exclaimed happily. “I knew you’d come for us.”

JT frowned, then tucked his gun away. He whistled as he took in the rest of the room. “I’ll call a forensic team.”

“You better,” Gil agreed. He gave Malcolm a sharp pat on the back, eyes stern. “If you weren’t bleeding, you and I would be having a very different conversation.”

“I know,” Malcolm sighed, leaning on him. “Called for backup, though.”

“Can’t argue there. Let’s go meet the medics outside.”

* * *

“ _Wow, what an exciting tale! Always the adventure-seeker, my boy,_ ” Martin Whitly chirped.

Malcolm adjusted his grip on the phone, holding out his arm as a paramedic carefully pressed a gauze pad to his wrist. He shifted from where he sat on the end of the ambulance, legs dangling over the edge.

“ _What about Lindsay?_ ” Martin asked. “ _Did you get him, too?_ ”

“What do you mean?”

Gil walked over, eyebrows raised. He mouthed Martin’s name, and Malcolm nodded in confirmation.

“ _Lindsay,_ ” Martin continued, “ _the security guard? Don’t tell me he left, he’s a prime suspect!_ ”

Malcolm furrowed his brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

In the comforting room that was Martin Whitly’s Claremont cell, The Surgeon tutted. “The initiation ritual, my boy,” he said emphatically. “Did you have to wear a white robe, or paint your face?”

“ _That doesn’t make any sense,_ ” Malcolm said. “ _Lindsay was in the freezer with us. He said he was taken from the painting--he’s a victim, like we were._ ”

“Taken from the painting _after_ you let him go home with SWAT?” Martin clicked his tongue. “How did he get back in the museum if you told him he was free to go?” 

“ _Unless he was already in the cult and there to watch us,_ ” Malcolm realized.

Martin opened his mouth in an exaggerated ‘o’ shape. “Did you really just let a cult suspect get away? Sloppy work, Malcolm, I must admit I expected better from you.”

“ _Not a suspect,_ ” Malcolm said hurriedly, “ _a victim._ ”

Now he was catching on. A slow smile spread across Martin’s face. “How so?” he asked, feigning confusion.

“ _Lindsay helped us, and got Dani and JT out so they could come back with backup,_ ” Malcolm explained. “ _Which means…_ ”

“He has to be punished,” Martin concluded. His voice turned sing-song. “Snitches get stitches! That’s a life lesson you’re quite familiar with, hmm?”

“ _I’ve got to go,_ ” Malcolm said.

“Always a pleasure, my boy!” Martin cooed. “I’m always thrilled to partake in unlocking the many _trompe l’oeil_ s your little friends at the NYPD toss.”

“... _Did you say ‘trompe l’oeil’?”_ Malcolm whispered, but Martin hung up the phone.

Family time was something Martin didn’t get enough of; speaking with his son always put a little spring into his step. He sat back in his chair, a devilish smile plastered on his face, and glanced at Mr. David, who shook his head.

“My son’s quite the detective, isn’t he?” Martin said affectionately.

Mr. David didn’t respond.

No matter. Martin was satisfied. He leaned back further in his seat, tipping his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes. And when he rolled up his sleeves for air flow, Mr. David couldn’t help but notice the two long scars that ran along either inner forearm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trompe l'Oeil: "to deceive the eye"; an optical illusion of architecture.
> 
> Of course Martin's part of the creepy art cult.


	9. Decoupage

“Lindsay’s the next target,” Malcolm announced, eyes wild, as he stumbled into the precinct.

Gil met him halfway to the conference room and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“We need a protective detail on the security guard, Lindsay. Patrick Lindsay,” Malcolm explained hurriedly.

“Bright, we exposed the cult. The case is closed.”

“We exposed the _cult_ , not the _killer_.”

Gil held his hand up. “Slow down and explain,” he said.

By this time, Dani and JT had made their way over to Gil and Malcolm, exchanging a confused glance. Malcolm relayed what his father had told them, and after he explained, JT rubbed a hand over his chin thoughtfully.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” he said, “dude’s got a point. Lindsay was all decked out in the robes and paint.”

“Probably against his will,” Malcolm added. “He helped you and Dani escape, and he’s only been a Thomas Quincy employee for a month. At a guess, he didn’t know what he was getting into.”

“So Lindsay helps us, and the cult goes after him for revenge?” Dani sounded skeptical.

“Not the whole cult,” Malcolm replied, “one person. They probably aren’t in a position of power--too unstable, too violent--but they somehow think that murdering those against the cult will up their status, give them recognition. Trust, even.”

“We’ve got the leader in custody, his name is Ferdinand Kane. I’ll see what he knows,” Gil said. He turned to leave, JT and Dani followed, and Malcolm sat down heavily at his desk with a loud sigh. He rubbed a tired hand over his face and winced at the strain on his arm. Now what?

Malcolm opened up Lindsay’s file and reread it. Then again. And again. He tried to find something, _anything_ , that would give him information on their killer.

Married.

_“So this marriage of yours--14 years?”_ _  
_

_“17.”_

Not stable. She was having an affair.

_“I think you recently filed for divorce.”_

So was he.

_“Do you consider him a secret?”_

Malcolm paused.

_“The overkill on Charles Orville suggests rage, passion.”_

He pored over the other employee files.

_“One of my jobs was to memorize the hieroglyphics._ ”

Maybe there was something he had picked up subconsciously.

_“That’s right. Secrets. Jake knows.”_

Jake? Was that it? Malcolm opened up the employee list on his computer.

_“The goal was taking the arm._ ”

Yes, he understood. Human sculpture. But wait…

_“Not the whole cult. One person._ ”

Their killer’s goal was to take the arm. He didn’t mean for the victim to die, but not out of the goodness of his heart. This was unfamiliar to him, like doing a job for the first time.

_“They probably aren’t in a position of power--too unstable, too violent--but they somehow think that murdering those against the cult will up their status, give them recognition. Trust, even.”_

The profile was wrong.

_“He needs to be punished. Snitches get stitches, as they say.”_

He wasn’t an outcast. He was a mercenary. A hitman.

_“A trompe l’oeil, built by Thomas Quincy himself._ ”

A quick search on the Thomas Quincy auction site revealed a large sculpture bought by Wesley Riggins.

_“Why Wesley Riggins?”_

A second click told him that Riggins had sold the art as his own.

_“Everyone is keeping secrets here.”_

Malcolm turned off the monitor and put his face in his hands, thinking hard.

_“What would Jake say if you went to jail?”_

He dug his palms into his eyes, breathing harshly.

_“There’s care in this. It’s almost loving.”_

 _“It_ is _loving.”_

The passion. Overkill. Leaving Lindsay alone with Malcolm and Gil was a trust test that he failed, yes, but it also was a means of protection. It all made sense.

_“This isn’t death. It’s a donation.”_

Gift-wrapped limbs they could use for their own. This killer was in love. So was Lindsay.

_“Your wedding ring. You’ve been twisting it quite furiously these past few minutes. That’s nerves. Anxiety. You’re hiding something that’s very important.”_

Jake. But he already knew that; a glance at the files had told him about the affair. And nothing was coming up on the employee list. No Jake, but he had to be invisible. Hitmen work in the shadows. They’re covert.

_“Everyone is keeping secrets here.”_

So Jake wasn’t his real name. What was it?

_“Did you really just let a cult suspect get away?”_ _  
_

_“Not a suspect. A victim.”_

A half-truth. Lindsay was involved--the white robe, the paint on his face, the way the others didn’t guard him as heavily, the way he knew how to get out of the escape rooms. Malcolm just needed a name.

_“Everyone is keeping secrets here.”_

Everyone has a tell. Everyone in the museum was connected. Collective rage against Orville led to his murder moments later, almost like a code word.

A code word.

_“All units, close off the exits, we’re on Code Grey, Code Grey.”_

Code Grey. Grey. Malcolm typed into the search bar.

_“Jacob Grey? How long have you been with the institute?”_

Jacob Grey was the head janitor. And janitors clean up after the others.

Malcolm scrolled back to the auction site and looked up the name of the artist who created the sculpture Riggins had stolen. Sure enough: Jacob Grey. Bingo.

Malcolm pulled Grey’s file. An address.

He grabbed his phone and hurried out the door.

* * *

Kane wasn’t talking, and his lawyer was firm: they were getting nothing. Gil gave an exhausted sigh and closed the door of the interrogation room before walking over to Dani and JT, shaking his head at their anticipatory expressions. Dani deflated.

“Now what?” she asked.

Gil shrugged. “We work our way up, like Bright said. Look into the employees.”

“Speaking of Bright,” JT said, “where is he, anyway?”

Gil glanced around. Malcolm’s desk was empty.

Shit.

Dani sprung into action, tossing a pair of keys to Gil. The three of them rushed out of the precinct and piled into a squad car, Gil at the wheel. He started the car and drove out of the parking lot into the streets, going slowly. Dani and JT searched out the windows, but neither of them could find anything.

“Do you think he just went home?” Dani asked hopefully, though that was unlikely. “He was cut pretty bad.”

“Hey, boss, take a look,” JT said suddenly. He was looking down at his phone. Gil pulled to a stop in the middle of the street.

“What?” he demanded, worry and impatience making him snappy.

“Would this be considered bad?” JT asked almost sheepishly, holding out his phone. On it, a text: _1265 W. Oak Street._

Malcolm was calling for backup. That was not a good sign.

As if to confirm Gil’s suspicions, JT’s phone pinged again: _Hurry._ And again: _Please._

Gil turned on the sirens and pressed down on the gas pedal.

* * *

The car screeched to a stop outside a squat, studio-like building. The doors were open. Gil pulled out his gun and flashlight and gestured for Dani and JT to do the same.

They entered the studio and cleared the first room. It was almost completely dark, save for a yellow light coming from a room in the distance. Gil moved forward. “NYPD!” he shouted.

They paused, unsure of whether or not to move in, but a strangled noise from inside the room made the decision.

Gil couldn’t help himself. “Bright?” he called.

More choking. A crack, like crunching glass. Then, silence.

JT went in first, but Dani almost bumped into him when he stopped in his tracks.

Gil moved around them and saw Malcolm, who was in one piece--more or less. Whatever this man had done to him made the art cult look like a peaceful community indeed. He was groping at his neck, hacking violently, on his knees. The wound on his arm had reopened, staining his shirt cuff a deep crimson. He leaned forward, and Gil caught a glimpse of wet hair matted to the back of his skull. But the most concerning thing was the wide, toothy grin spread across his face.

And leaning against the wall was Jacob Grey, the institute janitor. One of his hands pressed up against his nose, trying in vain to stem a steady gush of blood, while the other was tucked over his abdomen protectively.

Malcolm stood up on shaky legs and smiled, but not before Grey lunged forward and grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar. He held a knife to his throat.

Gil raised his gun up again. “Drop the knife, Grey!” he ordered.

Grey didn’t speak and stayed where he was, eyes hard and determined.

Then, Malcolm chuckled. Everyone, even Grey, stopped and stared at him in confusion.

“Hey guys,” Malcolm wheezed, giving them all a weak wave. “Meet Jake. Remember him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decoupage: different mixed medias that come together to form a collage. This collage usually covers something like a box, either to decorate or hide what it is.


	10. Einfühlung

_FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO:_

Jacob Grey’s house looked deserted. It was almost like a studio, stowed away neatly on the corner of the street, just a few city blocks from the museum. Malcolm took out a flashlight and clicked it on before taking a few tentative steps to the door.

“Jacob Grey?” he called, putting one hand on the door. It wasn’t locked. Malcolm pushed it open slowly and crept over the threshold on high alert. While he walked, he pulled out his phone, the address ready to send to JT in case things went sideways.

Something shifted inside the studio. Malcolm walked all the way into the building and drew the beam of his flashlight around his surroundings. The place looked empty, save for the dusty wooden beams on the ceiling. The ground was concrete. A few small boxes rested in the corner. But there was a small doorway in the corner, so Malcolm headed there.

“Jacob?” he said again. “My name is Malcolm Bright. I’m a consultant with the NYPD.”

No response. Malcolm tested the doorknob. Unlocked. It swung open, and the lights were off. Malcolm turned them on. “...Mr. Grey?”

Instability wasn’t the only reason Malcolm was fired by the FBI. There was something else he was never good at, and that was clearing corners. Maybe he should have done that before sauntering into a trained assassin’s studio.

He whipped around, but it was too late. Gloved hands pressed hard on his neck, sending him stumbling backwards, into the wall. Malcolm gripped Grey’s wrists and tried to pull him to the ground, but they stayed firmly over his throat. They staggered around the room for a while before Malcolm thrusted his knee forward, into Grey’s abdomen. 

Grey groaned, bending over for a moment, and Malcolm pulled out his phone, sending the address moments before Grey planted his hands on his shoulders. The phone dropped to the ground and Grey swung Malcolm, hard, into the mirror. The glass cracked behind his head and Malcolm dropped to the ground. He reached for the phone and sent another message-- _Hurry. Please._ \--before Grey reached down and slammed his head into the ground.

For a moment, Malcolm was only aware of a dull throbbing in the back of his head, like his brain was pounding inside his skull. Then, the noise came back as rushing in his ears, and Grey’s hands were back on his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw a knife on the floor. He groped for it.

Grey was faster. With skilled hands he swept the blade off the floor and brought it down, catching Malcolm in the shirt but not getting blood. Malcolm was suddenly aware that Grey could have killed him by now. He looked into his eyes--dilated pupils. Malcolm still had a chance; Grey was too fixated on getting out his rage than getting the job done.

“Grey,” Malcolm choked out, trying to pry his hands from his neck.

Grey didn’t say a word, just kept strangling him, the knife clasped firmly in one hand. He wasn’t even thinking about it. The blade dug into Malcolm’s cheek, leaving a small, bloodless impression.

_Think of something. Think of something._ It was getting hard to think, because Malcolm was losing air, and fast. Harsh gurgles were breaking from his throat, and the lack of oxygen made his legs jerk.

_Think of something._ In a desperate, final attempt, Malcolm tried: “Patrick Lindsay,”--he gasped, wheezed--“Patrick sent me.”

He felt his eyes start to roll, his head throbbing in tandem with his rapid heartbeat. But then suddenly the weight lifted at Grey stared at him in confusion.

“...What does he want?”

Malcolm coughed, gripping weakly on Grey’s arms. “You’re going to kill him, but he has something for you,” he spluttered.

More pressure gone. Malcolm could breathe again. He sucked in a large gasp of air, watching Grey’s angry expression morph into confusion. An opening. Malcolm wriggled one arm free and brought his fist down, hard, on Grey’s nose.

Blood spattered his face and Grey released him fully, stumbling back and pressing a hand to the wall, wincing in pain. Malcolm allowed himself to gulp down a few more harsh inhales before the door burst open.

The texts came through. At the door was JT, looking shocked, gun drawn. Malcolm gave him a weak smile before stumbling to his feet. Behind JT stood Dani and Gil, looking quite uncharacteristically frightened. Malcolm didn’t know why until Grey wrapped his arm back around, pressing a knife to his throat.

Gil brough his gun back up. “Put the knife down, Grey!” he ordered.

Malcolm coughed. He should probably explain what was happening.

“Hey, guys,” he managed, “meet Jake. Remember him?”

* * *

_NOW:_

“Stay still, Bright,” JT ordered, taking a step forward.

“ _Stay back!_ ” Grey shouted, pressing harder on the knife. “Stay back, or he dies!”

“Grey,” Malcolm choked out. “Don’t you want to know what Lindsay got for you?”

“ _Patrick_ is a traitor,” Grey hissed. “He was never loyal to us.”

“True,” Malcolm wheezed, “but he was loyal to you. Right?”

Gil kept his gun raised, but his hold on the trigger relaxed a little as he noticed how Grey’s grip on the knife faltered as Malcolm talked. Obviously, Lindsay was his Achilles’ heel.

“I have a job to do,” Grey said, after a moment.

“I know,” Malcolm said. “You’re a hitman. Protecting the community. But you don’t have to kill me.”

“I don’t want to.” Grey’s voice was soft.

“So don’t,” Malcolm said. He stumbled a little bit, and Gil felt worry tug in his gut. “No one ordered you to kill me. If you bring down that knife, it’s not righteous. You can’t even donate me. It’ll be a waste.”

Grey bit his lip, and tensed when he heard sirens coming down the street.

“Don’t do this,” Malcolm said again. “You know it isn’t right. We understand why you killed those people, Jacob. Trust me, I want to help you.”

Grey shifted, weighing his options.

The knife fell to the floor.

Malcolm lurched to the side, coughing harshly, sinking to his knees. JT moved forward to arrest Grey while Dani crouched down in front of Malcolm.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” Malcolm wheezed, rubbing at his neck. He brought a shaky hand to the back of his head, and winced. When he brought it back, he widened his eyes in surprise. Dani looked down and sucked in a small breath at the sight of his blood-coated fingers.

“Almost fine,” Malcolm corrected himself, before tipping forward. Dani caught him by the shoulders and turned to Gil, who nodded and brought his radio to his mouth to call a bus.

“Bright,” Dani said softly, turning back to him. “Are you with me?”

“With you,” Malcolm slurred from where his head rested on her shoulder. He coughed before letting out a shaky exhale. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. You okay?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Told you, m’fine. Just tired.”

A couple EMTs jogged into the room and Dani hoisted Malcolm up to pass him off. He walked unsteadily with them, and Gil followed. JT ushered Grey out the door, exchanging a tired glance with Dani. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding before following them out the door.

At the base of the ambulance, Malcolm was sitting like he had been earlier, with his legs dangling off the edge. A new bandage was wrapped around his arm, and he held an oxygen mask to his face, head tilted up as one of the paramedics palpated his throat and shone a light in his eyes.

Gil crossed his arms. “That was reckless,” he said.

Malcolm coughed. His voice was muffled by the oxygen mask. “Yeah.”

“You should have waited,” Dani added, hands on her hips.

“Yeah.”

“Why’re you called ‘Bright’ if you do all this stupid shit?” JT piped up.

“Yeah, up. I’m getting the point. Can we yell at the concussed man later?”

Gil softened and reached out to rub his shoulder. Malcolm leaned into the touch.

“At least that’s done,” JT sighed. “Creepy cult’s all finished. Kane’s giving us a list now.”

“Not exactly,” Malcolm replied. “There’s one member we haven’t accounted for.”

Gil furrowed his brow. “Do you have an address?”

A small smile tugged at Malcolm’s lips. “Sort of.”

* * *

“Martin? Your son’s here to see you.”

Martin Whitly smiled to himself, turning around in his chair to face Malcolm. He was about to say hello when he noticed the bruising on his throat.

“My, my,” he remarked. “You’ve been through quite the wringer.”

“Not exactly an open-and-close case,” Malcolm said dryly.

“Ooh, right, the case!” Martin stood up and walked forward until he almost reached the red line. “Tell me everything. Did you get Lindsay?”

“Lindsay was going to be murdered by Jacob Grey, the janitor,” Malcolm explained. His voice was hoarse. “Grey was the cult’s assassin. He killed Wesley Riggins and Charles Orville in order to win the affection of Lindsay and the community.”

“And at a guess, he tried to kill you, too,” Martin commented.

Malcolm nodded slowly. “There’s more.” 

When Martin nodded for him to continue, Malcolm took a step forward until his toes brushed the red line. He tugged at his sleeve and displayed a long bandage covering the inside of his forearm. Without waiting for a response, he pulled the bandage off, revealing a gash that ran from his wrist to his elbow. Martin raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You know what this is,” Malcolm said. “You have it too.”

Martin’s face cracked into a grin. He chuckled. “Ever the brilliant one, my boy,” he said. “I knew you’d figure it out. Did they do the little...y’know.” He brought up his cuffed hands and mimicked a knife going down. “The little dig at the end?”

Malcolm brandished his arm and gestured to the small nick at the end of his gash from where the cult figure had dug in his blade at the end. Martin whistled.

“Oh, they really _did,_ ” he gushed. “Quite painful, isn’t it?”

Malcolm stayed impassive. “Show me yours.”

“Your wish is my command, Malcolm, my boy!” With a cheerful grin, Martin rolled up both his sleeves, revealing twin scars on the inside of his arms. “Look at that--matching tattoos! Yours are a little on the sloppy side,” he added, “but I suppose you’ve always gone for that risky, debonair look.”

“So you’re part of the community?” Malcolm asked, his voice quiet.

“Technically, so are you,” Martin said petulantly. “But to answer your question, yes.”

“You know what I’m going to ask you, then.”

“Of course--great minds think alike! And _no_. None of my murders were sent to the community. I take credit for my own art.”

Malcolm didn’t seem any more relaxed. He shifted the bag slung over his shoulder, and Martin nodded to it.

“What’s in the sack?” he asked.

In response, Malcolm unzipped the duffel and pulled out a small canvas. His blood was turning a rusty red as it started to dry. “They let me keep it,” he said.

Martin grinned. “How lovely. We really are the same.”

“We’re not the same.”

Martin waved his hand dismissively. He was about to say more when Malcolm said suddenly--

“It’s for you.”

Martin stopped. “What?”

“This painting? It’s for you. I don’t want it.”

“Really?”

“Only if you answer me this question.”

Martin groaned in exasperation. “Oh, Malcolm, not the Girl in the Box again.”

“Where is she?”

“She didn’t exist,” Martin said firmly. 

“She _did_. I remember her.” Malcolm stepped forward until they were face-to-face.

“Malcolm,” Martin said slowly. “I think you’re quite stressed right now. Maybe you need to sleep more.”

Malcolm gave a wry laugh. “Maybe you should have thought of that before murdering twenty-three people.”

Martin’s eyes hardened, but he didn’t snap. He couldn’t. Instead, he took the canvas from Malcolm’s hands. When he spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous: “Always a pleasure, my boy.”

Malcolm stepped back, eyes cold. “Goodbye, Dr. Whitly.”

He turned to go, and Martin glanced down at the canvas before chuckling and shaking his head. He called out to Malcolm: “Bye, my boy! See ya’ in a couple weeks!”

Malcolm didn’t turn around or break his stride. He let himself out the door and walked down the hallway.

“I meant it,” Martin continued. “Maybe you should take a day off! Get your mind off things.”

The door closed. Martin walked back to his chair and held the canvas to the light, admiring it. He leaned the small frame on the desk, against the wall, and scooted back around to face Mr. David.

“Do you keep your kids' drawings?” Martin asked.

Nothing. Not so much as a blink.

“Ah, well,” Martin said, leaning back, “I love anything my son makes for me. He’s really an artist in his field.” He gave a resigned sigh and chuckled to himself. “Just like his old man, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Einfühlung: "empathy"--art is an expression of the self, an extension of one's own mind and body.
> 
> WE DID IT!!! That's a wrap on Trompe l'Oeil! I'm so so happy for anyone who stuck around until the end, and for all of you who enjoyed reading. This was so fun to write--especially that last chapter. Thanks a lot! ❤️


End file.
